To Change the World
by Finfinfin1
Summary: In a world filled with Men how does the smallest of girls find a way to shine? Written for Teitho. Prompt:Expectations. Placed Second.


Something precious is missing in the Palace at Minas Tirith.

We have searched the grounds, been through every room, looked in every nook and cranny and still no luck. It is a big place but as the day wore on and Arwen and her maids had no luck more and more of us have joined the search until now a veritable army troops the corridors.

When Arwen first arrived flustered and ever so slightly breathless to enlist Aragorn and I we thought it would be at most a pleasant hour's distraction from our work but it has turned into several. Dusk begins to fall and what was once was amusing now becomes alarming.

And there is still no sign.

I have left the others, their rising anxiety just distracts me, and have come to stand, silently, in the middle of Arwen's garden. They have already searched here, but I have not. Arwen it was who came through here and she says she found nothing, and if anyone could have discovered this needle in a haystack she could. . . Still I think I shall have one more look. Galadriel's granddaughter she may be, but she is _not_ a Silvan _._

So I stand and I reach out to the trees, there are so few of them here in Aragorn's city, I know every single one of these. They tell me where to look.

On my hands and knees I crawl through the dirt and leaves, through the narrow tunnel between the bushes. It does not bother me, not even the scratching of twigs against my skin; I am at home here.

And then, as I part the leaves in front of me, huddled into the furthest corner, I find her.

There Gondor's missing Princess sits, knees up round her ears, her dress . . . What once was a dress, scattered with pretty lace and embroidery, is torn and smeared with mud, and her face is furious.

"Tinu!" I reach out a hand despite her fierceness, to smooth her hair. "What are you doing here?"

Tindómiel is her name. An ancient name for a little girl, passed down from her ancestor, daughter of Elros, Arwen's cousin. It is strange to think that—Arwen never knew her.

But Tinu is what _I_ call her, have always called her: Spark or small star, in my language. It suits her much better than that grand Quenya name her parents have given her.

"I am _hiding_ Legolas!" she hisses at me angrily. "Be quiet!"

"What are you hiding from?" I cross my legs and squash myself down so I can sit opposite her. It is a tight fit.

"From _them."_ She is such a wild thing. I do not know where this has come from. Arwen has a fierceness if you cross her but she is still refined and elegant. I have asked Elrohir if this is what she was like as a girl and he does not think so, but he has a brothers memory. It is not accurate.

Perhaps it is from Aragorn? Perhaps he was a scratching, biting, rebel child as a young one? But Elrohir says no. He says whenever he was in Imladris he remembers Aragorn being more like Eldarion, not this small whirlwind.

"And why do you hide?" I ask her.

She leans forward, all the force of that determined personality in her words,

"They want me to _sew!"_

It is all I can do not to laugh. A needle and thread is what has driven her here? But laugh I do not for that will not do at all.

"Is sewing so bad," I say, "that you have to spend all day in the bushes?"

"It is boring, Legolas, and Mother says I must do it. I would rather be in the bushes. I like it here. I am no good at sewing. Gilraen's is always perfect but I _hate_ it. I am never going to sew again!"

She is so stubborn and determined I do not doubt it.

"What were your plans then Tinu? How long were you going to stay here? It is getting dark after all. It is not a very comfortable place to sleep you know."

"I am not going to sleep here," she cries and looks at me as if I am a complete fool for suggesting it—perhaps I am? She leans right up close to my ear then with a conspiratorial whisper.

"I am going to run away!"

She is triumphant.

"Run away?" I did not see that coming. "Run away where small one?" Too late I see the bag that sits beside her. What treasure has she packed away in there to take with her I wonder?

"When it is dark," she tells me patiently, "I shall go to the stables and get Breigel and ride away."

Breigel is her pony; Fierce one. She named her. Breigal is small and placid and fat and further from a fierce one you could never get. Breigel will get her exactly nowhere.

"And how will you find the stables, Tinu?" I humor her. This little girl has never been beyond the Palace doors by herself.

"Oh I know the way," she says confidently. "Down the road, turn right, over the small bridge, left at the blacksmiths—"

"Alright, alright, Tinu!" I cut her off. The little minx is right, she knows the way. Her instructions are exactly, perfectly right. "So you get Breigel and then where will you go?"

"To Ithilien!"

For Erus sake! She plans to come to us? Why us, why not Faramir?

"To Ithilien?" I say quickly, "But I am here. You do not need to go to Ithilien, Tinu."

And she laughs.

"I do not go to see _you,_ Legolas! If I go to Ithilien I can run through the trees. I can be a _warrior_ , I can do anything. They will not make me sew in Ithilien."

I am filled with sadness as I look at her small upturned face. Her eyes shine, her smile is wide. She _should_ be able to run through the trees. She _should_ be able to be a warrior if she wishes _._ This small soul that radiates so brightly, she should be allowed to soar.

And Gondor will not allow it.

"Tinu," I brush away the fine brown curl that tumbles across her face. "It is a long way to go to Ithilien on your own. What if I made you a promise? What if I take you to Ithilien for a visit with _me_ when I go home, with your Mother. You will miss her otherwise." It seems the perfect solution. It has been too long since Arwen has come to see us. She needs it, the company of my elves. She is lonely in this city. I promised Elrohir I would take her to Ithilien often and that has not happened. This will solve both my problems. Tinu _and_ Arwen.

But Tinu is not so easily swayed.

"Mother will make me sew."

"Not in Ithilien. I promise! No sewing."

She bites her lip as she considers my offer. She tilts her head as she weighs it up in her mind.

"I will come with you." She says in the end. With as much gravitas as if she were her father, accepting a peace treaty.

"Will you come with me now then?" I ask, holding out my hand. "Your mother and father are worried and it is teatime."

But of course with Tindómiel it is never that easy.

She shakes her head.

"Mother will be angry. She will say, _All the embroidery you should have done today, you will do tomorrow, Tindómiel!"_ She tips her head and puts her hands on her hips, wagging a finger as she imitates Arwen's frustrated voice. In that moment she looks so like her—she is so funny—I fail to choke back the laugh that has been waiting to escape throughout this whole conservation.

"It is not _funny,_ Legolas!"

"Oh it is not you, Tinu," I rush to reassure her, else I will never get out of here and I am beginning to get uncomfortable in this small place, "It is your mother I am laughing at. _She_ is funny!"

"Hmm . . . Yes she _is_ funny." And Tinu joins me in my laughter with her high sweet giggles. In the end we are both laughing when we crawl out from under those bushes and I try not to think on what I have just promised without her parents permission.

"Your firebrand is sleeping."

Arwen looks tired as she enters Aragorn's study where we sit and dissect the day.

"Why must she be _my_ firebrand?" He protests. "I never remember getting the whole of Imladris out searching for _me_ when I was a boy—" He cuts himself off midsentance then before he smiles, "Actually there was that one time with the tree . . . But I was not hiding . . . I was stuck. Not the same thing at all."

"No," she sighs as she sits down. "I suppose she is mine. What I did to deserve this small version of Grandmother I do not know."

"Galadriel?" I lean forward with surprise. I cannot believe she connects this tiny bundle of wildness with the cool elegance of the Lady of Lothlorien.

"You only know Galadriel, Legolas." She smiles, "Not Artanis, who crossed the Helcaraxe to be free, who said _No_ to Feanor Finweon himself. Artanis let nothing stop her and no-one best her."

Ah! I can see it now.

"Well your small ball of freedom was intending to run to Ithilien." I tell her, "and she would have achieved it too. She had it all planned out. I am confident she would have at least made it past the city gates."

"It does not bear thinking about!" Aragorn runs a tired, frustrated hand through his hair. "How to control her?"

"Why control her, Aragorn?" I ask. "Perhaps that is where you go wrong. She yearns for freedom? Why not give it to her?"

"I cannot let her take herself off to the elves, Legolas! She is a small child for one thing . . ."

"I may have promised her a trip to Ithilien with me."

"You may have promised—? Legolas!" He frowns at me with disapproval. "We cannot _reward_ her for this!"

"Not a reward as such—" I fiddle with the sleeves of my shirt as a distraction for he is right. It _is_ a reward and I had not thought of that. "She told me she wished to run through the trees, Aragorn, to be warrior. Her smile was so bright, her eyes . . . I could not say no to that Aragorn."

Beside me Arwen sighs. She sounds at once both very tired and very sad.

"With Arwen," I add eagerly. If I want Aragorn on side this is the way to do it. "Who needs some time amongst our elves to rejuvenate, and you know it Aragorn. We have talked on this. And if Arwen is coming then Tindómiel must. She is so small. She needs her mother."

"Well that is true." He leans back in his chair and I think he agrees with me so easily because he does not know what to do with his little wildcat himself. "But I cannot encourage this idea of being a warrior, Legolas. It will only disappoint her in the end."

"Why?" I fold my arms in displeasure at his words."Why must she be disappointed? If a warrior is what she wishes why can she not be it? Why must she spend her time sewing instead?"

"Because it is not what is expected of her. It will not happen. That is the way of the world. We are not elves"

"Says the man who marched into his new Kingdom and married an elf himself. That was not expected of you either, Aragorn and yet you did it!"

"And it has not been easy!"

"I do not think Tinu will ever expect _easy_ in her life, Aragorn. I do not think she is afraid of a fight."

"I agree with you, Legolas." He replies, "She _should_ be able to do what ever it is she wishes. That is what I most want for her. But it is not the world she finds herself in. She is a princess . . . The people have expectations . . . It will not be accepted. I know you find this hard to understand. I know it is not your way."

From his defensiveness and the waves of Arwen's exasperation I feel beside me I think this is a topic they have argued long and hard about before now.

"If the world does not expect it then the world must change Aragorn. And who better to change the world for her than you?"

"We must find a way through this, Estel." Arwen says beside me. "Remember Artanis. This child will do what she needs to get what she wants. She will not accept her barriers. She will climb them and she will run. We will lose her."

"I have a plan." I tell him, for I have thought on this. "Beyond just a trip to Ithilien. Have you thought on Éowyn?

"Éowyn?" I see by his surprise that he has not.

"A fostering . . .when she is older of course . . . Eldarion spent time with Faramir did he not? And Elboron here? That is usual and accepted already. Let her learn to be a shield maiden. It is acceptable for the wife of your Steward after all! Éowyn has already forged the way here." I turn to Arwen, "Who knows . . . If you hold out promise to Tinu of that you may even get her to sew while she waits to grow!"

"Eldarion and Elboron were boys," Aragorn sighs, "It is not that easy—"

"It is exactly that easy, Estel!" Next to me Arwen's eyes shine, much as her daughter's did earlier. "It is an inspired plan, Legolas."

"Well I do not wish to boast." I cross my legs and lean back in satisfaction. "It is not easy being this brilliant."

Aragorn laughs. He laughs as if he does not believe me brilliant at all but I do not mind.

If I find a path for that luminous spirit to shine as she should, a way for that stubborn, feisty, sparkling child to smile that bright smile and be who she wishes then it is worth it.

Far better the world see _her_ brilliance than know about mine.

Let us lead this new Artanis to become her Galadriel.

Though I must say . . . The thought of another Galadriel is a very frightening thought indeed.


End file.
